The Sun Was Out, But I Wasn’t There
Hawaii hit me with the usual bullshit—warm sand, a sunset that looked like it was ripped from a travel ad. But it all felt fake, like I was staring at a postcard showing a perfect life that wasn't mine. Everything was bright, sure, but I couldn't reach or take part in any of it.
Supposedly, I was in paradise. Inside, I felt nothing. Not a damn thing.
December. I stand on a beach in shorts, sun burning my skin, salt on my lips, tropical fruit in the air. A few blocks from everything, but it might as well be a thousand miles—completely cut off, emotionally distant. I felt nothing. No joy, no spark. Just a body doing what it used to love, not caring at all.
I trained for months—twenty-mile runs before dawn, living like a monk. For what? I arrived in Hawaii, but my sense of purpose missed the flight. I remember a run in Georgia—humidity so thick I couldn’t see, just fog, sweat, and me, stopping by a tree I’d passed a hundred times, realizing I was as lost inside as the world outside. That feeling stuck with me in Hawaii. Did a shakeout run on the sand before the race—felt bone-deep exhaustion, not in my legs, but behind my eyes. Like my brain was tired of pretending.
I had this list—record shops, beaches, bars, all the old spots that used to mean something. This time, nothing. No nostalgia, just me wandering around like a tourist in my own memories, an outsider in places that once felt like mine. People talk about the 'aloha spirit' like it’s magic. It wasn’t missing. I just couldn’t feel it. It was like watching my life on TV, unable to get off the couch and participate—detached from what was happening to me.
Even my wife felt a million miles away.
She was there for the race—focused, disciplined, doing what she should. I tried to figure out why I didn't care. I avoided running beside her—I didn't like who I was. I didn't want to slow her down or be seen.
Race day came.
Fireworks. Music. Adrenaline. Then: silence in my head.
She took off like she always does—driven, beautiful, untouchable. Focused in a way I couldn’t fake, even if I tried.
I plodded through 26 miles of self-loathing and finished under six hours. It should've felt like victory. It didn't. It felt like failure.
On the last day, we did the tourist thing—Kualoa Ranch, the North Shore, a macadamia farm, and record stores. Every place worth going was closed. The whole trip felt like that: just arriving to see doors slam in my face, always a step too late for anything meaningful.
The plane took off for home. Dead quiet. Same when we landed. Like nobody wanted to admit we were back to real life.
It was the kind of quiet that makes you realize you can travel anywhere, but if you’re lost inside yourself, it’s impossible to feel at home, no matter where you are or how beautiful the place is.
I used to think Hawaii was paradise. Turns out, paradise is just a word people use when they’re not paying attention, meaning it’s an empty label if you feel disconnected from yourself.
Now I think paradise is anywhere you can feel wonder—and somewhere on this trip, I noticed that feeling was gone.
